It seems still impossible to me now that we, in this half-modern, half-archaic world, are able to muster up the science defying wonder that we have come to know as magic. While some seek to categorise and assess it as if it were truly quantifiable, I don't see quite how one can expect to truly study something so... perplexing and abstract as magic the way one would study the chemical reaction between elements to form compounds. After all the closest a scientist truly gets to the unknowable wonder of magic is fire - the one state which is can not explain in quantifiable terms beyond the heat it produces. And thus, this is how I have found myself here - currently somewhat stranded in a decaying manor house somewhere in the great wilds of Hampshire and quite flummoxed as to how I might get out of here alive. The blood drew them to me... curse my clumsy nature to the hells and back. Yes. Hells. I'm sure I will see them before long. I can sense them. The scrabbling of claws and the guttural, harsh quality of the language they share. But also... their mana - the source of their magic. Like sulphur and heat and burning wood. Pungent and heavy in the air. They tend towards what the scholars call the Arcanum - one of their "Four Pillars of Spellwork" - a nonsense if you ask me, which no one does. Whoever asks a clumsy would-be scholar anything? Especially one who finds themselves in trouble like this...
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